Author, musing:
Our land hath peace, prosperity, and rhino,
And Legislators true, and staunch, and tried—
What trait have they, that is not pure—divine oh?
(Echo interposing) "I know!"
What is it, if thus closely thou hast pried?
"Pride!"
If thus into their hearts thou hast been prying,
Thy version of the matter prithee paint;
Tell us, I pray, on what are they relying?
"Lying!"
I thought their honour was without a taint—
"Taint!"
Have they forgotten all their former glories?
Their virtue—what hath chanced its growth to stunt?
Oh! wherefore should they change their ancient mores?
"More ease!"
What weapon makes the sword of Justice blunt?
"Blunt!" *
* Coin
Thou would'st not speak thus, wert thou now before 'em:
Why do I heed, why listen to thy tale?
Can'st purchase, then, the honour of the Forum?
For Rum!"
And what would blind Dame Justice with her scale?
"Ale!"
Beware! the fame of Senators thou'rt crushing!
Too flippantly thou givest each retort.
What are they doing while for their shame I'm blushing?
"Lushing!"
And drinking?—pray continue thy report—
Port
Curse on these seeds of death, and those who sow them
But there's another thing I'd fain be told—
What of the masses, the canaille below them?
"B-low them!"
Thou flippant one! how is the mob consoled?
"Sold!"
Now, by stout Alexander's sword, or
Rather by his Holiness the Pope!
By what means keep they matters in this order?
"Sawder!"
With what do they sustain the people's hope?
"Soap!"
Take they indeed no passing thought, no care or
Heed of what for safety should be done?
What brought about this modern Reign of Terror?
"Error!"
Is there no hope for thee, my land, mine own?
"None!"
Base love of liquor, ease, and lucre, this it
Is which coileth round her, link on link;
Dark is her hope, e'en as the grave we visit!
"Is it?"
Of what black illustration can I think?
"Ink!"
Alas my country! shall I not undeceive her?
Shall I not strike one patriotic blow?
I'd help her had I but the means, the lever—
"Leave her!"
May we not hope? speak Echo, thou must know—
"No!"
Then shall be heard—when, round us slowly creeping,
Shall come this adverse blast to fill our sails—
Instead of mirth, while hope aside 'tis sweeping—
"Weeping!"
Instead of songs of praise in New South Wales—
"Wails!"
[Original]
THE following ballad suggested itself to the Author while in the remote interior and suffering from a severe attack of indigestion, he having rashly partaken of some damper made by a remorseless and inexperienced new-chum. Those who do not know what ponderous fare this particular species of bush-luxury is when ill-made may possibly think the sub-joined incidents a little over-drawn. If a somewhat gloomy atmosphere be found pervading the narrative, it is to be attributed to the fact that all the horrors of dyspepsia shadowed the Author's soul at the time it was written, and, if further extenuation be required, it may be stated that he had previously been going through a course of gloomy and marrow-freezing literature, commencing with Edgar Poe's "Raven," and winding up with the crowning atrocity (or albatrossity) which saddened the declining years of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.